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Richard ‘Dick’ Whitney, 78

Aug. 28, 1939 – Oct. 11, 2017

His life, as told by his son, Randy:

Dad was born in turbulent times. The Great Depression was coming to an end in 1939, and World War II was just beginning. His Dad was shipped off to the war in Europe leaving his Mom to raise him and his younger brother, Mike. Thankfully, his Dad returned safe from the war.

Dad’s teenage years were spent in one of the most fabulous decades of the century — the 1950s. He grew up relatively poor, but in a house that knew how to cope without material things, where you learned to fix things that broke, and where family, strength, loyalty and the ability to create richness and fun out of thin air established the foundation that defined him as a person for the rest of his life.

He met Mom (Cami) in the 1960s, introduced to him by his friend, Scott — Mom’s brother. They moved to California from Missouri in the late 1960s, ultimately having three children and nine grandchildren, including one great-granddaughter.

He became a master of all trades. For one of his first jobs, he became a master technical illustrator, even though he never went to school to learn drafting. In fact, he never really liked school much. His relentless thirst for knowledge on various subjects — maybe the most exciting to him being the geological origin and evolution of the igneous rock, basalt — would lead to his intense interest in the area of North Idaho and Eastern Washington.

Creating things with his hands became his life work. He taught himself to build houses (he could build and fix anything). He didn’t grow up a farmer, but he taught himself everything you ever needed to know about farming. For some crazy reason, he dreamed of worms and “getting away from it all” to start the country’s most innovative and advanced large-scale worm farm: GAWFIA Farms. He had no experience as a logger, but he became fascinated and knowledgeable in logging. He never cut down a tree, but isn’t that the easier part of logging? (He was more a master of the theory.) He didn’t know how to spell that well, but that didn’t stop him from becoming an international, best-selling author…or at least “the author” part of that sentence. He was never a miner, but he became a master in that field of study. Later in life, he even got to go down in a mine.

Risk was not a four letter word to him. Risk was fun. Risk was living. He believed change is something you embrace. Even if risk and change meant starting a new career, moving to a new state, or putting a truck in reverse to back out of a two-mile, crumbling dirt road because a landslide wiped out any chance of a turn-around. And then only to learn that there was even a worse road you could take to get to the same place, often a clear patch of ground where an old building used to be — at least according to the topographic map.

Dad wasn’t only his own best teacher…He was a “professor” to so many of us. He taught his kids the value of family, loyalty, patience and love. He and our mother were married for 52 years. And again, he taught us that if things are in need of repair, you fix them; no need to go out and buy a new one. This applied to his personal life and his relationships. He also knew that the best way to make a friend was to be a friend. He never stopped making friends and being a friend to anyone who would allow him. He would go out of his way to help a friend in need. He knew that helping others would bring great satisfaction, and often the deed would be returned, but that was never the expectation.

He instilled in his kids the importance of the right brain, that side that delivers creativity, ideation, artistry and emotion. The side that brings so much fun and joy to life…that likes to build models, craft furniture, draw, carve wood, and dumpster dive for carpet remnants so you can patch together your own Partridge Family, multi-colored wall-to-wall carpet (true story). He taught us the power of positivity and overcoming obstacles — and how important the former was to the latter. He lived most of his life with a debilitating disease called Myasthenia Gravis — two words he did learn to spell. However, he never let it beat him or stop him from the things he wanted to do. Positivity is optimism, and it is also the creation of presence in absence of substance…and that was something he loved to do. He would scribble on a blank piece of paper or napkin, turn it around, study it and then draw it in to create something we all would recognize. He would create fun out of boredom, adventure out of safety, trees out of moss and wood putty, ducks out of blocks of wood, and an exciting journey out of a simple drive.

For Dad, life was always about the journey. It wasn’t always about the beginning or the end; it was often the space between that really counted. We didn’t always agree with him, care to see what was around the next bend or over the next hill (most of the time it was another bend or hill), but we admired his curiosity, his love for all things God created, and that he loved to share it with us.

However, his love of the journey sometimes left the destination not as important. It probably explains why he wasn’t bothered by projects that went unfinished. The project was the journey, the product being the destination. His life and home was full of unfinished projects; while that may bother some people, it didn’t create angst for Dad. He enjoyed the challenge; it brought him great joy and richness to his life.

So we say, “Well done Dad!” His life verse was John 3:16. He loved the Lord and was lifted up to Heaven in the most gentle of ways.

Dick leaves behind his wife, Cami; son Randy (Mona), grandson Shawn, granddaughter Aleena; daughter Melissa, grandsons Micco and Brighty, granddaughter Apple; daughter Julie Hibbert (Jeff), grandsons Drew (Madison and daughter Tenley Jay) and Nathan Ernst, and granddaughter Sydney Ernst.

Yates Funeral Home has been entrusted with the care of final arrangements.